


#13 Diet/Exercise: A Christmas Feast

by geekmama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-11 05:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8955508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Truly, one had either to weep or laugh at the absurdity of such unbelievable mercy... Sooo fluffy, all the fluff, all the fluff, this is a three chapter sequel to The Holiday Spirit, and my offering for the 50 Reasons To Have Sherlolly Sex prompt, 'Diet/Exercise'.





	1. Breakfast at Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'Breakfast' prompt at Livejournal's [Sherlock 100](http://sherlock100.livejournal.com/profile).
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Once upon a Christmas, Sherlock had lied to and drugged a number of those nearest and dearest to him, involved his faithful but unwitting best friend in a plan that had a fair probability of ending with them both charged with treason, and, due to an unforgivable miscalculation of the situation, had found it necessary to resort to a drastic, inelegant, but extremely effective solution to the problem that had necessitated all this drama. Sherlock had not particularly regretted the murder itself. Magnussen, as John had once said of another victim of his British Army L106A1, _wasn’t a very nice man_. No, Sherlock’s concern had been centered around the dire consequences that, at the time, he’d assumed were inevitable. Mistakes had been made, payment was due, and If anyone had told him where he would actually be exactly two years later, he would have presumed the prophet was high as a kite, or insane, or, more likely, both.

Yet here he was, not dead, not even incarcerated, but lying happily abed in his cozy Baker Street flat in the sparkling, _snowbound_ city of London, on the mend from a malady that John had acidly informed him was as near to pneumonia as made no odds (acquired in Berlin on a recent mission for the British Government, so it was Mycroft’s Fault), and, his appetite somewhat restored, enjoying breakfast in the company of his very own Christmas Elf, otherwise known as Dr. Molly Hooper, who was sitting cross-legged at his feet and wearing holiday print pyjamas, a Santa hat, and an expression of rapture as she licked jam and crumbs from her fingers in an intriguing and disconcertingly sensual manner.

Truly, one had either to weep or laugh at the absurdity of such unbelievable mercy.

“What?” Molly suddenly demanded.

Apparently she’d noticed the way he’d been staring. At her lips, her pink tongue, her slender fingers (the short nails neatly varnished in bright red, like bits of foil gift wrap). Such strong, dexterous, capable fingers, whether in her professional milieu or on a much more personal level.

It had been a whole month, now, since those three memorable nights in a chilly basement guest room in Fairfax, Virginia. Though _memorable_ was hardly an adequate descriptor...

Unfortunate that there was no way to curtail the flush heating his cheeks and the tips of his ears, though he was, with an effort, able to resist squirming.

“Sherlock, what is it?” she asked again, her concern obviously increasing. “Are you alright?”

He gave a sort of weak chuckle, and, since his voice had more or less regained functionality in the last twenty-four hours, was able to rasp, “Not sure there are words to adequately describe how alright I am at this moment.”

A pleased smile lit her countenance. She set her own plate carefully down on the bed, shifted to her knees, and crawled up beside him, warm and vital. He could not help the sigh he gave as she tenderly brushed the untidy curls from his forehead and placed a kiss there. Then she sat back on her haunches and, eyes bright with affection, said, “I’m so glad you’re feeling better today. Now you _have_ to admit I was right to call John the other night.”

Sherlock’s contentment was somewhat dulled by this assertion. “No. You’re a doctor and could’ve prescribed the same thing. And I certainly didn’t need a jab on top of it, he’s just a bloody sadist, it’s always coming out when he’s sleep-deprived.”

She chuckled. “Poor Sherlock! But _I_ was ready to stuff you in a cab bound for the A &E when you spiked that fever. You’re fortunate John was willing to come over and see to you at two in the morning.”

Sherlock continued to sulk, but more in the knowledge that he had behaved like a whinging seven year old the night of his return, rather than out of any real sense of ill usage. It seemed ridiculous that a minor illness could so impair one’s temper, break down one’s long ingrained habit of stoicism...

“But don’t let’s argue,” Molly said, now. “I know you’re still not quite yourself. What can I do to make you more comfortable on this lovely Christmas morning?”

His pout faded and was replaced by a slow smile -- and from Molly’s increasingly mischievous smirk she was quite aware of the direction his thoughts were taking. But he said, “I don’t want to chance giving you this horrid contagion, though, so I suppose… not?”

Her own cheeks were pinking prettily, and there was also a decidedly greedy element in her expression. “I think we can work around that… if you’re sure? I mean… it was only those three nights, in the cold and dark of the wilds of Virginia. I tried not to read too much into it.”

He took up her hand and said, rather harshly, “You can read into it what you like. It was all I could bloody think about in Berlin.”

She looked suddenly concerned. “The mission?”

“Oh, that. Of course that went off as planned. It was just… the rest.” He scowled at her. “What have you done to me, Molly Hooper?”

And she was smiling again. “This _is_ the best Christmas ever.” She lifted his hand to her lips, then gently loosed his clasp. “Let me remove the breakfast things, they’ll just be in the way.”

He watched her gather the crockery onto Mrs. Hudson’s tray, enjoying the sight of her delectable backside as she set the tray on the floor for later removal, then felt his pulse quicken as she turned to him again.

“This will be excellent,” she murmured as she climbed up beside him once more and began to unbutton his pyjama shirt, “Just what we both need, for of course it was pretty much all I could think of while you were in Berlin, too. _And_ I’ve been needing some exercise. Mrs. Hudson’s cooking is too lovely and I’ve gained three pounds at least--”

“Two,” Sherlock corrected, his hands roving from her waist to her hips, “which are most attractively dispersed, in fact.” She was drawing his covers down now, and he frowned and said, “You’re wearing too many clothes -- _Molly!_ ”, this last gasped in reaction to her hand firmly brushing the very obvious evidence of his interest that was straining beneath plaid flannel.

“No over-exertion for you, however,” she said, playing the doctor now, though her brown eyes belied her serious tone. “Only chaste kisses, in light of your illness, and you’ll relax and let me do most of the work this time, is that clear?”

 _God!_ he thought, unsure whether it was merely a blasphemous exclamation or a prayer, and managed to utter aloud, “Yes, ma’am,” before being rendered speechless, or at least incoherent, by her hands… her mouth ( _lips_ _teeth tongue oh god oh god oh god…_ )... and all the rest of her, all the elements, physical, emotional, and yes, spiritual that were Molly… his Molly… _his_ Molly...

 

*

 

Some considerable time later he was lying curled against her, his damp forehead tucked between her bare neck and shoulder, his heart gradually slowing, his body and mind calmer than they’d been in weeks. He considered the feel of her, the smooth skin beneath his hands. Knew he would never forget the sight of her coming apart for him, with him, the splendor of her on that bright morning: Christmas redeemed, and for all time, please God. Thought, too, of the way she’d stayed to take care of him since the night he’d returned from Berlin.

Comfort and joy.

And truly astonishing mercy.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” came a whisper against his hair, almost too soft to hear.

It was his intention to reply in kind, but with sleep rising up, irresistibly, to claim him, he couldn’t manage it, it would have to wait, like his kiss, like the present waiting in the pocket of his coat. No, he could only breathe a single word, though surely it was the best, the sweetest one in all creation...

“ _Molly…_ ”  


	2. Lunch at Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...and now Mycroft had shown up and, eschewing strongarm tactics, was attempting to guilt Sherlock into parent-sitting on the morrow..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the 'Lunch' prompt at Livejournal's [Sherlock 100](http://sherlock100.livejournal.com/profile), with thanks to Quarto for a minor element from her brilliant _[Frozen in real time](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8926780)_ , and likewise to John Finnemore from _Cabin Pressure_ (kudos to MizJoely for catching that one!).  
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The Christmas Day snow had turned to slush and mounds of grey where it lingered in what might have seemed, in a sentient entity, passive-aggressive resentment of London’s urban heat island; John, Mary, and little Grace had blithely flown off to Tenerife for a holiday in the sun; the criminal classes were currently so subdued that Lestrade had left town as well, attempting yet again to reconcile with his ex wife (a Vain Hope, as even a man of average intelligence should have known, though recent developments featuring the delectable Dr. Hooper made the concept somewhat more understandable); Molly had pronounced Sherlock sufficiently recovered from illness that she could leave ( _abandon_ ) him to return to work (though thankfully Stamford had been persuaded to finagle the schedule in such a way that she was allowed evenings off), and now Mycroft had shown up and, eschewing strongarm tactics, was attempting to _guilt_ Sherlock into parent-sitting on the morrow.

All in all, it was nearly enough to make Sherlock take to his bed again.

“They _miss_ you, Sherlock. Mummy was _distraught_ when she found out you were too ill to come home for Christmas, after the plans she’d made.”

“She sounded fine. I spoke to her that afternoon.”

“She would, wouldn’t she? But I assure you, there were tears in her eyes as we sat down to dinner.”

“Probably because _you’d_ snaffled all the mince tarts. Or did her Yorkshire Pudding fail again?” Their mother was a brilliant mathematician, but strangely inept at cookery other than baking.

“You saw me bring in the plate of tarts she sent for you when I arrived, and I suggest you eat them. You don’t look quite as malnourished and bleary-eyed as you did when you were _on the sauce_ , but you’re not far from it.”

“Thanks.”

Mycroft gave him a prim smile and a gimlet eye.. “I’ve no doubt Dr. Hooper will do her best to fatten you up -- one of the few advantages I can see in your _liaison_.”

“It’s not a _liaison_ ,” Sherlock growled.

Mycroft was unperturbed. “No? And yet I perceive that your association has moved beyond the professional and entered… what? Boyfriend/Girlfriend? Though the terms seem rather too innocent, don’t they?”

Sherlock’s annoyance abruptly escalated, and something of this must have shown on his face.

“A _deduction_ , brother mine,” Mycroft said, his smug expression fading to one of comparative sincerity. “There never have been surveillance cameras in your bedroom, tempting though it’s been in the past. You merely have the… er … _smell of April and May_ about you.”

Sherlock laughed. “Is _that_ what it is?” Though not ready to forgive, he could yet be satirical.

Mycroft almost looked embarrassed. “So to speak,” he said with a shrug. “Mummy will be vastly pleased, no doubt.”

“You haven’t told her? You surprise me.” _You interfering, officious bastard._

“Not precisely. She knows, of course, that Dr. Hooper accompanied you on your recent trip to the U.S., and that she’s been caring for you this last week. Why do you think you were spared a visit? She was ready to descend upon you armed with a rectal thermometer and the recipe for Great Aunt Mildred’s vile medicinal tisane  It was I who assured her that Dr. Hooper was in attendance and most capable of nursing you back to health.”

“Well, thank God. I _do_ owe you for that,” Sherlock admitted. Mycroft exaggerated, but only _just_.

“It will only be lunch at Rules and _The Nutcracker_ at the Royal Opera House. I’ve purchased four tickets for the 2:30 matinee so Dr. Hooper can accompany you, she has the day off tomorrow, I believe.”

“A _ballet?_ ” Sherlock exclaimed, horrified.

“I know, I know. I’ll do the next two musicals if you’ll take this one.”

“The next three,” Sherlock said, stubbornly.

Mycroft sighed. “All right, three -- unless they object too much. I keep telling you, they miss you. If you’re not careful you’ll have them paying you a visit _here_ again”

Sherlock sighed, well aware his brother spoke the truth. “All right. Two. I suppose Molly might enjoy a musical.”

“Certainly she would, she’s seen eight in the last three years, including two performances of _Wicked_.”

Sherlock glared and raised a brow.

Mycroft cleared his throat and stood, taking a firm hold of his brolly. “I’ll send a car and the tickets tomorrow. You have a noon reservation at Rules. Do you think you’ll be able to walk from Rules to the Royal Opera House, or should I send the car back at 2:00?”

“For a five minute walk? I hope you’re trying to be funny.”

“Not at all.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes heavenward. “Get. Out.”

“Very well. But I do thank you.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched, watching Mycroft consider the prospect of sitting through a work he found even more repugnant than _Mama Mia_ or _Cats_. But he said, “Go, Mycroft, before I bloody well change my mind.”

 

*

 

Molly was, predictably, thrilled at the prospect of the event -- “I haven’t seen _The Nutcracker_ since I was at school, and I’ve never been to Rules, though I’ve heard about it all my life! Oh, Sherlock!” -- and demonstrably, delightfully grateful, too. Sherlock’s strength was rapidly returning, and he gave every bit as good as he got in the subsequent encounter, which bordered on the athletic and had Molly desperate to muffle her shrieks of pleasure -- twice.

A strenuous half hour later, when they lay naked and gasping for breath on the bed, hands tight-clasped, Sherlock told her, “You should be thanking me... women burn… far more calories... when intercourse culminates... in orgasm.”

She gave a gasp of laughter. “I read that, too… and of course, it makes sense. But Rules! Roast, and pies and game! And Sticky Toffee Pudding! I’ll need a great many orgasms to burn the kind of calories found in traditional English fare.”

Sherlock chuckled, too. “I believe I can help with that,” he said, squeezing her hand, and longing for the day he could snog her senseless. They were still being cautious about his contagion at this point, though hopefully soon...

“But your mother and father!” she said, suddenly pulling her hand from his and rolling to her side, looking at him with quite a serious expression. “I’m looking forward to meeting them, of course, but…”

“But what?” he frowned.

“Do you think they’ll like me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course they’ll like you. My mother will be bloody ecstatic. I foresee a great deal of suggestive prodding.”

“ _Suggestive!?_ ”

“Not _that_ kind of suggestive. More along the lines of grandchildren. She’s been despairing for years.”

“Oh, dear!”

“Yes, well, if I can bear it, you can. We’ll just have to ignore her.”

Dismay flashed across her face at this, though it was quickly erased, and she tried to laugh again. Sherlock wanted to reassure her that he did want children, if she would consent to be their mother, but no, that would spoil his plans. His surprise. Only a few more days...

“I’ll shower and then make some dinner, shall I?” she said, and began to move away. “Something light, in view of lunch tomorrow.”

But he stopped her. “Not yet.” And he rolled them over so that she was half-pinned beneath him, his knee riding between her legs. Her startled expression inspired him to smile wickedly. “In view of lunch tomorrow… something light. But delicious. And satisfying. Are we agreed?”

There was such love, tinged with sadness, in her eyes that his heart ached.. Her whispered, “Yes,” was barely audible.

“Let me, then,” he whispered back, placing a tender kiss by her mouth. Her hands gripped his bare shoulders, but she closed her eyes, legs parting, and gave a soft gasp as, more gently now, he began again to explore.

 

*

 

To Sherlock’s surprise, the outing on the following day proved almost enjoyable, far more so than he’d ever anticipated, even considering his enhanced appreciation of Molly’s presence.

It hadn’t started out well, of course. After dinner the previous evening, Molly had insisted she needed to go back to her own flat for the night, claiming that she had to find appropriate attire for the ballet and, moreover, her cat -- her _cat!_ \-- missed her. “You’ll be fine, Sherlock, and I’ll be back first thing in the morning, I promise.”

But he had not been fine. After Christmas morning she had moved from the couch, where she had been on call during the height of his illness, into his bedroom and his bed, and _sans_ Molly he found that his bed had become an object of purely decorative interest. He fell asleep on the couch himself that night, missing her like the devil, and more and more certain that his derisive remark about his mother’s desire for grandchildren had qualified as _not good_ , as John would say.

She seemed happier, but very nervous when she finally returned in the morning -- not _first thing_ but well after ten o’clock. She was wearing her yoga pants and an oversized jumper, and carrying no less than three different dresses, with appropriate accessories for each. After ascertaining that he had taken his medication along with Mrs. Hudson’s tea and a couple of Hobnobs by way of breakfast, she demanded that he choose one of the three ensembles she’d brought. “Which do you think your parents would like best?,” she asked him, a plea in her voice.

Never indecisive when it came to fashion, he immediately said, “Wear that one,” and pointed to a short knit dress, deep red with a subtle thread of metallic gold. He didn’t much care if his parents liked it or not. It would be warm and comfortable, appropriately festive, and would give a strong hint of her slender yet shapely form.

She retired to the loo to change her clothes, and he took himself off to the bedroom. He emerged far sooner than she, but when she finally did appear, he was not disappointed. He got up from his chair and walked toward her, and saw the happy blush mounting her cheeks as she took in his expression. There was no need to dissemble. He’d chosen admirably well.

“You look lovely,” he told her, his hands going to her waist, slim and strong beneath the soft wool.

She chuckled, and ran nervous fingers down the lapels of his jacket. “You do, too!”

He grinned and bending, kissed her -- on the cheek.

It was probably that kiss on the cheek, reminding her of far less happy times, that initially made her so quiet as the car drove them the short distance from Baker Street to Rules, but as they moved past familiar landmarks to Maiden Lane in Covent Garden, he knew that it was the anticipated introduction that made her clutch his hand, and bite her lower lip.

Mary Watson had several times accused Sherlock of possessing the palate of a toddler, which was ridiculous. He enjoyed a good curry as much as anyone, and found Chinese or Thai offerings acceptable as well. But it was true that he found the cooking and recipes of his native land more enjoyable than any other, and Rules, the oldest restaurant in London, was famous both for the charm of its warm yet elegant decor and for the excellence of its traditional English fare. Sherlock’s father had always insisted on dining at Rules _en famille_ at least once a year (usually before or after a performance of some sort) and had never deviated from this practice in the thirty-eight years of his son’s existence. Sherlock had missed a year or two here and there, but the old place was still very familiar, a fact that added yet another layer of ease to the event.

Fortunately, this familiarity calmed Molly as well.

A cheery voice welcomed them as they walked in. “Mr. Holmes! How good it is to see you here again!”

Sherlock winced a bit. “Molly, this is Pelham, who’s been the host here since I was a brat of about twelve. Pelham, Dr. Molly Hooper of St. Barts.”

The grey-haired man gave Molly a discreet bow and a smile. “Welcome to Rules, Dr. Hooper. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you. May I take your coat, and yours, too Mr. Holmes. Your parents are waiting in their usual spot.”

Pelham took away the coats, and Sherlock glanced down to see Molly’s eyes wide with something close to panic.

“Do I look alright?” she said, her voice a low squeak, pulling surreptitiously at the hem of her dress as though it was suddenly too short, and glancing down at the low-cut neckline. She was wearing a simple necklace, a gold chain with an engraved heart, one she’d probably received from her parents when she was a girl: pretty, but it occurred to him that by rights she should be wearing something with diamonds instead.

He’d have to take care of that.

“Come, you look fine. More than fine.”

She smiled up at him as he took her hand.

His parents’ spot was a booth toward the back of the restaurant, and both of them rose to greet Molly. And their prodigal son.

“My dear Dr. Hooper, I’m so pleased to meet you!” said Mummy, all smiles. Hugging Molly, her smile remained, but there was a certain flash in her eye as she glanced at Sherlock and added, “I understand that my son is once again indebted to you.”

“Always,” murmured Sherlock. As she straightened, he dutifully kissed his mother’s cheek.

“Oh, no…,” said Molly. “Always happy.... but please call me Molly.”

“And you must call me Millicent. But here is Sherlock’s father, Vernet.”

“How do you do, my dear.” Father, ever the charmer, kissed Molly’s hand and once again left his son wondering how he made such an old fashioned mannerism look so natural.

Mummy said, “Sherlock, you sit over there by your father, and Molly will sit opposite, by me, so we can discuss you without hindrance.”

Sherlock gave a slight groan and roll of the eyes, but really it was no more than he’d expected. He was lucky this first meeting had not taken place in his parents’ home, where several hefty albums full of embarrassing photographs lurked, but as he sat down by his father he was speedily disabused of the notion that his dignity would remain unscathed.

“She has several of your baby pictures in her wallet, you know,” Father said, quietly, his eyes twinkling, “but perhaps she won’t think of that.”

Sherlock sighed, hope diminishing as his mother began to quiz Molly on various aspects of his recent illness. Molly glanced at him just once, her eyes laughing now, but otherwise gave her full attention to Mummy -- as anyone with a modicum of sense would do.

“Is it serious, then?” his father said to him quietly, his head cocked like some inquisitive bird.

“It is,” Sherlock said, equally quiet. “I’ve known her… a long time.”

His father nodded. “I know. Mycroft’s told us a little about her. You’re a fortunate man, I believe.”

Molly was chuckling now, smiling and replying to Mummy’s searching questions with admirable calm, and with as much discretion as possible, every bit the doctor… the friend. The lover.

“I _am_ fortunate,” said Sherlock, smiling wryly, “though considering our history… what she’s done for me over the years… the word almost seems inadequate.”

 

*

 

“Did you like it?” Sherlock asked Molly with a smile that evening, when they had returned and were finally alone again in the cozy surroundings of 221B. As she had just danced up the stairs to the tune of Waltz of the Flowers, after whirling the laughing Mrs. Hudson about after the landlady had let them in, he hardly needed to ask.

But she waltzed over to him and he caught her hands in his. “It was wonderful! Wonderful! I adore your parents! Sherlock, do you know how fortunate you are?” And her eyes suddenly sparkled with tears, thinking of her own parents, dead these many years.

He drew her close, and held her, in silence for a while, and then murmured against her hair, “I do know how fortunate I am.”

After a time, she sighed and drew back slightly. “I--”

“Stay tonight,” he said, quickly. “Please?”

He could see the debate, and the moment when it was resolved, and she laughed, helpless against the love she had lived with for so long. Unrequited for so long. “If you want me,” she said.

He swept her up, carried her into his bedroom, and closed the door.


	3. Dinner at Angelo's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...he’d been pacing the flat in anticipation of the Fatal Molly Assignation, eight o’clock that night at Angelo’s and everything had to be perfect, as he’d told the man himself when he’d made the reservation a few days ago..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the 'Dinner' prompt at Livejournal's [Sherlock 100](http://sherlock100.livejournal.com/profile).   
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**Running late, NSY are idiots including Gareth - SH**

 

**It’s GREG, and try for patience, he’s a good man - MHx**

 

**Have been patient. For several hours - SH**

 

**I’ll meet you at Angelo’s, don’t worry, take your time, just keep me informed - MHx**

 

**Sorry. Yes. Thank you - SHxx**

 

**:-) - MHxx**

 

Sherlock sighed, his exasperation somewhat assuaged, and shoved his mobile back into his pocket. You’d have thought the criminal classes’ spirit of the season would’ve lasted beyond New Year’s Day, but apparently there were set limits. Lestrade had texted at 3:36 P.M. on the 2nd, requesting Sherlock’s assistance with a case that should have been a five, but actually turned out to be nearly an eight. Glad of the distraction at first (for he’d been pacing the flat in anticipation of the Fatal Molly Assignation, eight o’clock that night at Angelo’s and everything had to be perfect, as he’d told the man himself when he’d made the reservation a few days ago) he’d quickly been cursing his luck and trying not to snap at Lestrade, much less Anderson, both of whom seemed slower even than usual.

“Sherlock! _Oi!_ Would you come look at this?” Lestrade called, waving from across the road. He was standing by a pair of skips that had obviously been disarranged in the last six hours. _Interesting._

But as Sherlock walked out of the brighter lighting of the main investigation and made his way over to Lestrade and the skips, lit only by torch and moonlight, it suddenly occurred to him how black and cold the evening had become, and remembered Molly’s habitual reluctance to spend money on cabs.

“I need to send one more text,” he told Lestrade as he reached the pavement, and pulled out his mobile once more.

 

**Molly, ordering a cab to pick you up at 7:45 and NO ARGUMENTS >:-(  - SHx**

 

He’d barely put the phone back in his pocket when her text alert sounded in reply and he had to fish it out again.

 

**LOL! OK. - MHxx**

 

He allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction

 

*

 

It was 8:26 when he virtually burst into Angelo’s, somewhat out of breath since he’d jogged the last quarter of a mile when traffic gridlocked due to an accident (drivers unhurt but irate and near to blows as the police arrived); glanced around in surprise and dismay at the number of diner’s, all of whom seemed to be turning to stare in startled wonder at him; then addressed Angelo, who was bustling toward him.

“She’s here?”

“In the alcove, yes, just as you said. But Sherlock--”

“Thank God! At least something is going right this evening. I can find my way, thanks.”

“Sherlock--”

“Bring some champagne along, best you’ve got. Five minutes -- no, ten!” And he moved toward the back of the restaurant, trying to catch his breath, calm himself.

The case had been wrapped up neatly, but by the time he’d finished, it had been too late to return to 221B to freshen up. Fortunately the state of his person was still acceptable, since Lestrade’s lackeys had essayed the skip-diving that had revealed the essential bit of evidence, but he was very much aware that he was not at his best and it put him off a trifle.

There was nothing to be done about that now, however. He was at the end of his patience. He’d barely seen Molly these last three days. This was mainly due to her increased work schedule -- he was almost completely recovered, so Stamford had given others holiday leave -- and in the evenings she’d claimed exhaustion (probably true, since she’d ended up working a couple of twelve-hour shifts) and the need to comfort her bloody cat as London noisily celebrated the New Year over a long weekend.

The situation was entirely unacceptable.

He needed her by him, in 221B, in his bed, in his _life_ , but in spite of her longstanding regard for him, at this moment he wasn’t entirely confident _she_ wanted that. He knew he was no bargain in some rather essential areas, and over the last few days he’d begun to fear that she might think twice about allying herself to such a creature till death should claim one of them in the (hopefully) distant future.

So if he had to beg, so be it.

And he was prepared to take the cat, as well.

It was in this anxious yet determined state of mind that he approached his destiny, slipping around the narrow planter, whose greenery more or less screened the alcove from the main restaurant. And there was Molly -- _and_ John and Mary Watson. All smiling up at him.

“Sherlock!” Molly exclaimed, jumping up from her seat to greet him. But then her happy glow faltered as she took in his expression. “I… I wanted to surprise you,” she said, uncertainly.

“Came home a day early, mate,” said John. His brow wrinkled. “Everything alright?”

But Mary, whose own brows had twitched together as soon as she’d seen him more or less poleaxed by their presence, suddenly brightened and, highly amused, exclaimed, “Oh. My. God! Talk about poetic justice!”

Sherlock flashed her a frustrated glare (at which she gave a small snort of laughter), but obviously he couldn’t deny her accurate assessment of the situation.

He turned back to Molly (who, to his pained chagrin, looked almost ready to bolt), grabbed her hand firmly and reached into the pocket of his Belstaff with the other, fetching out the item that had been burning a hole in it for nearly two weeks. “This is for you,” he said, bluntly, his voice oddly unsteady. “If you’ll have it. If you’ll have me.” And he pressed the small box into her hand and released her, holding his breath, heart thudding.

She stared, eyes wide and (it seemed to him) rather worried. Then she looked at the box… slowly opened it… and gave a small gasp. “Oh! Oh, Sherlock! How beautiful!” A delicate thing, the ring was of intricately wrought white gold, and diamonds, set off by tiny gems in pale blues and greens.

He said, “I saw it in a shop in Berlin and knew it was for you. A gift… but more than a gift. Molly…”

She looked up at him again, quite shocked. “Sherlock… are you--”

“Yes. Molly… I love you. Will you marry me?”

She seemed stunned.

He went on, stammering, “It’s just… I thought… I’ll try to make you happy, I swear--”

But he got no further for suddenly she was in his arms, saying, “Yes! _Yes!_ ” and he was holding her and muttering, “Thank God.” And then he was kissing her, as he’d longed to do for days, and it was perfect, a delight surpassing even his highest expectations, better even than those first sweet stolen kisses they’d shared beneath the warm covers in Virginia, when his surrender was something new and raw, and every movement, every touch, every sound was no less than a revelation. So perfect that he barely noticed the noise of John’s joyous laughter, or Mary’s crow of delight… or even the applause that grew and grew all around them....

 

*

 

“Oh, Sherlock! Look at this one.”

With a quizzical smirk, Molly passed him yet another of the tabloids that Mrs. Hudson, barely containing her joy and laughter, had delivered along with their late morning tea and scones. Sherlock now set his cup down on the bedside table and took the paper.

This headline read, _Boffin Betrothes Bart’s Bride._

“ _Boffin_ ,” he repeated, disgusted, as always, by the appellation. _“_ Bloody hell.”

And then he saw the picture beneath, another of the many versions of that first kiss at Angelo’s, before God and everybody. He almost regretted having ordered champagne for the house (on Mycroft’s card, of course, since he’d conveniently forgotten to give it back after the Berlin trip). What with the ubiquity of smartphones, he and Molly were now splashed all over both print and digital media.

This particular instance was captioned like many of the others: _London’s very own consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, has finally been snatched up by petite pathologist Dr. Molly Hooper of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Rumor has it that an April wedding is being planned by the happy couple._

Molly, snuggled against him and reading, too, said, " _April_. They must have overheard us discussing a date with John and Mary,”

“You’re sure you don’t want to elope?” he asked, quite seriously.

She bit her lip. “You don’t think the media circus will die down presently?”

He sighed. “Perhaps.” And a wedding would make her happy, he thought. And other parties, as well… he wondered suddenly if his parents had seen the papers yet that morning…

And, even as he completed the thought, his mobile began to ring and buzz. He picked it up. “It’s my mother,” he told Molly, and proceeded to silence the phone.

“You’re not going to answer it?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“Nope. Better things to do right now.” He set the phone back on the table alongside his tea, dramatically swept all the horrid papers off the bed, and snatched the one Molly was holding, too, tossing it onto the floor.

“Hey!” she said, pretending to object.

“Later,” he told her, firmly, and pulled her close.

She was grinning now. “Again? Not that I’m complaining.”

“You’d better not,” he told her, his hands moving over her back, then lower. “I find I’ve become quite addicted to the sight of you in the throes of an orgasm by morning light.”

“Mmm… I could say the same of you,” she said, giving in, ruffling his hair… kissing his cheek.

“Yes. But _I_ didn’t have an extra helping of Tiramisu last night,” he replied. “I believe you’re still two pounds over, Miss Hooper.” And, grinning, he gave his outraged fiance’s lovely ( _beloved_ ) backside a provocative pinch.

 

~.~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to finish this before the premier of S4 (and I barely made it for those in the UK). Are we freaking out, yet? Why yes, I believe we are!
> 
> Happy New Year to all of you!


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